


The Truth

by aph_aleks



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Alcohol, Although i might make another chapter for smut, It's sad then it gets fluffy, M/M, Past Relationship(s), References to Sex, Slurs, Unrequited Love, happy birthday pauliee, i feel bad for posting this on paul's birthdayh, not actual smut, poor paul, sorry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-18
Updated: 2019-06-18
Packaged: 2020-05-14 00:40:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19262464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aph_aleks/pseuds/aph_aleks
Summary: Paul McCartney has been lied to in every single relationship he has ever been in. Maybe Stuart Sutcliffe can change that.





	The Truth

Paul McCartney, the pretty boy who enjoys wearing skirts and fishnets, the one that everyone seems to fuck over every chance they get and leave him broken - many, many people have left him broken. Sobbing, crying, shaking. He was practically used to it after years of men saying that they love him, only to leave him when he can’t satisfy them anymore, only to find out that they had been cheating on him and using him as a  _ sex toy. _

 

He had a hard life. Maybe not as hard as some other people’s lives, but hard nonetheless - but, he dealt with it, as he had for years, he dealt with it. He didn’t like people having pity on him - it only made him feel worse, but sometimes, he just wanted to feel real and properly loved, none of that fake bullshit that somehow crept into his life. Every single time. Fake. Every “I love you,” every “You’re all I want,” has been all fake, and Paul really didn’t want any more of that - no, he didn’t need any more of that.

 

It had seemed real with John.

 

John Lennon, guitarist, writer, the perfect man - the one that finally made him feel loved, like he was worth something. The one that - no, just…  _ the one.  _ That’s what he seemed. He seemed like the one - Paul, of course, was  _ stupid  _ enough to believe that the older actually loved him. Life had told him over multiple occasions that he was incapable of being loved, that he only existed as a punching bag or a literal fuck-toy but he still jumped at the slight chance that this one person actually wanted him.

 

It was obvious he didn’t love him by the time he was packing up his clothes and other belongings from Paul’s house - he had met someone else. He had met a woman called Yoko Ono, described by John as the most beautiful woman he had ever seen - “So much better than a slut like Paul McCartney,” He had said before slamming the door behind him with everything of his in two suitcases.

 

What a dick, right?

 

Paul’s entire world fell apart at that moment and that moment only. He had truly loved John, truly felt happy with him, but obviously he wasn’t deserving of something so good in return. Everyone left him - that’s it. Everyone left. He could do nothing about it but wallow in his pain and his fear - relationships were something he didn’t do anymore, because of  _ fear.  _ Men would fuck him, tell him they love him, walk out - and that was really it. There was nothing more to him than that, he was a good fuck.

 

He wished he could be seen as more than that.

 

Obviously, life hated him.

 

Paul McCartney hated John Lennon and everything he was, everything he stood for, everything he did.

 

Their relationship had started one drunken night when they were both desperate and needy - sweaty hands grasping at one another as they fucked for the first time in John’s flat, something that Paul wished had never happened. He remembered waking up in an overwhelming panic of not knowing where he was and who the fuck had their arm around his waist, but he soon grew comfortable with the horny John Lennon showing up at his flat every now and then. Every now and then - ever since the first time they had sex,  _ drunken  _ sex, John had had Paul’s number from when he wrote it down on a little notepad in his kitchen. From that number, he found out Paul’s address (he had called him at three in the morning, horny and asking where he lived - yes, three in the morning and so Paul caved in and gave him his address) and from the address he found solace.

 

John said that the only person who offered him real comfort and solace was Paul - until Yoko, obviously. That bitch.

 

They could both go to hell. 

 

Then, he met Stuart Sutcliffe. 

 

Stuart Sutcliffe, artist, a close friend of John’s, overall just a bittersweet person. 

 

At the start, Stuart had proven to be no different than the other men he had engaged with before - fucking him, leaving, fucking him, leaving again. It had started out like every “relationship” of his.

 

Except, Stuart fucked him in spite - spite because John had fed him so many fucking lies about Paul, about who he actually was. John had told him that all Paul lived for was dick and that he was a slutty bitch - that he was nothing more than some Hamburg prostitute. That he was nothing. Stuart wasn’t the kind of person to hang around afterwards.

 

The others  _ did  _ stay for a bit afterwards, but everybody left in the end. They stayed long enough to make it hurt when they left.

 

In a sense, he was grateful for Stuart. In a weird way, he liked him more than the others. That was probably due to the fact that he didn’t get his hopes up and didn’t stay around long enough for Paul to fall in love (something he did very easily) - he appreciated that, even if their encounters were filled with insults and rough fucking. The word “slut” was a popular one between them.

 

Stuart made him feel like shit. It wasn’t such a bad thing.

 

Now, Paul  _ did  _ wish to be loved, actually loved, many times, but his wishes were unanswered and he always found himself back at the same bar, drinking shots of vodka until some man puts a hand up his skirt, and then he found himself at a strange unfamiliar flat somewhere else in Liverpool.

 

Paul McCartney liked Stuart Sutcliffe.

 

Stuart Sutcliffe didn’t like Paul McCartney.

 

This was blatantly obvious when Paul was awoken at four in the morning by five very loud knocks - more like bangs - at his front door. He made his way to the door groggily, since it was literally four in the morning, and unlocked it slowly. Naturally, he was too tired to care, he answered the door in his pyjamas shirt that hung to just below his knees, long enough to be mistaken for a nightie, or something like that. Whoever it was would sincerely regret waking him up at that time at night (or morning, Paul thought, it was morning, after all) and as he opened the door, he found himself rolling his eyes. 

 

John Lennon, back again.

 

Not just John, it was never  _ just  _ John (or, well, what John had said when he accused Paul of cheating, when the accusation obviously fit the older more).

 

Stuart Sutcliffe.

 

Both of them. At his flat. At four in the morning.

 

“Fuck off,” He grumbled, attempting to shut the door on them as quickly as he opened it but John was stronger, and the door remained open. “It’s four in the fucking morning, what do you want?” He tried to be as quiet as possible.

 

“That’s no way to talk to me, slut.” John spoke with repressed anger, the smell of whiskey from him the dominating scent of the two. They’d been out drinking. Of course. Really, Paul didn’t expect any less - John was  _ always  _ drinking,  _ always  _ “drowning his sorrows” in alcohol. That wasn’t really it, though, was it?

 

“I don’t get why you call me a slut, John,” Paul replied in a snarky and mockingly sweet tone, “When you were the one that cheated on me while we were together!” The frustration in his words really showed now, making him want to punch something, or someone. Anything. His hands shook not only with anger but with nervousness - John really didn’t seem to be giving up easily.

 

Meanwhile, Stuart hadn’t uttered a word.

 

John’s eyes narrowed after a silent moment, “You are so fucking petty, McCartney.”

 

Paul looked at him for a minute with a raised eyebrow, contemplating his next words, “I have every right to be mad at you, John,” He began trying to close the door again, “Every fucking right.” He said slowly and unusually calm this time, startling the other two. He had gone from almost yelling to speaking slow, careful words - John knew he was really pissed off this time.

 

The younger was only met with a blank stare. Again, silence overcome them - Paul was still breathing heavily from trying not to yell and/or punch something, Stuart just watched from behind John.

 

“Explain to me, Paul, what have I done wrong? See, I left  _ you  _ because of everything that  _ you _ did.”

 

Paul smiled softly before looking John dead in the eyes.

 

“You told me you loved me. You took me on dates, bought me an anniversary ring, bought me roses,  _ made love to me _ \- as you called it,” He cleared his throat when he saw the smirk on John’s face and took the prolonged silence as an opportunity to speak again, “And then you brought a girl back to our flat. You fucked her, in our bed. We got over it, you were drunk. Then, you started going out at hours you never had before, telling me that it’ll be okay and that you’ll be back soon, but I never saw you until the morning came. Your friend, one of the girls you fucked behind my back,” His voice was getting increasingly angrier, “Cynthia, I think was her name.”

 

“She told me everything. Told me that you were going to bars and fucking every girl you could get your hands on. Every guy you could get your hands on. Like a  _ desperate slut.” _

 

Paul could see the shocked look on Stuart’s face, a look he had never seen before - it was also a look of worry, although it didn't seem like it at first - then, anger. Paul was scared that it was directed at him and he instantly regretted the last four words he had yelled, scared because they were both stronger than him and were already practically in his flat. He couldn’t back down now though, could he? And so he kept going.

 

“And then,” Paul laughed bitterly, his eyes harboring a look of devastation, “Yoko happened. You left me, for some fucking whore! Did you ever fucking care about me?” He didn’t care if his neighbors were getting annoyed at the yelling at four in the morning, he really didn’t - “I bet you fucked me and then went to fuck someone else straight after, when I was sleeping, huh?”

 

Paul knew what he said was true. He heard John leave multiple times while he was fake-sleeping, always waking up to an overly-happy John who had probably had his dick sucked more in the amount of time he was gone than he had in all the time he spent with Paul, which obviously wasn’t much at the time. 

 

This was a mistake, Paul couldn’t help but think.

 

John stared at him for a short minute, a puzzling look in his eyes - for once, Paul couldn’t tell what he was feeling, and it almost annoyed him but his thought process was cut off when a hand wrapped around his neck, blocking his breathing.

 

He grasped at the hand around his neck and looked straight at John, who was staring at him with a murderous glint in those wide eyes of his - he couldn’t fucking breath and his vision was going blurry and the words  _ fuck, fuck, fuck  _ were continously swirling around his mind and  _ fuck  _ John wouldn’t let go and-

 

He collapsed to the floor, his own hand wrapped around his neck protectively as he tried to level out his breathing, but to no avail - he was quickly spiraling into a panic attack, a self-deprecating panic attack. He sobbed and sobbed, each one wracking his body even more until he was shaking uncontrollably, trembling hands trying to grasp anything he could reach. 

 

A hand on his shoulder made him jump and he instantly tried to swat it away before realising that no, it wasn’t John, it was Stuart, muttering soft words to him in a careful tone that made him feel more okay than he felt previously. His voice was… helping? It was soothing for one, something he never thought he’d ever admit, certainly not in the midst of a panic attack. “Where is John?” He managed to choke out between sobs, clutching the front of Stuart’s shirt with desperation, like he was trying to decipher if he was even real or not.

 

Stuart shushed him, “I made him leave, love. You’re okay,” He kissed his cheek before attempting to help him up, taking both of Paul’s hands in his and lifting him up slowly. The younger’s arms felt weak and unmovable, depending completely on Stuart at that moment - everything depended on him, it seemed - luckily, his panic attack wasn’t as violent as it was before, but he still couldn’t move his arms as much as he’d like, yet. 

 

Paul looked around.

 

His front door was closed, there was blood on Stuart’s fist as if he had punched someone, and John was nowhere to be seen.

 

Huh.

 

“You’ll be okay, hmm?” The older asked as he helped him to his bed, helping him lie down as he was still shaking gently, the aftermath washing over him, “If I leave, you’ll be okay, right? Because, I doubt you want me here after all that,” He started talking again when Paul didn’t respond, “I’ll take that as a y-”

 

“No,” Paul spoke, his voice soft yet trembling, “Don’t go.”

 

He looked so vulnerable, so  _ weak,  _ that Stuart couldn’t resist these words and  _ those eyes.  _

 

The older found himself kicking off his shoes and crawling into bed with Paul, pulling him close, Paul’s back to his chest in a spooning position - he pulled the blanket over the two of them, sighing. It was nice, he thought. He wished that he knew how much John had hurt this perfect man before he acted like he did towards him, acted so  _ horribly  _ towards someone who wasn’t what John described him as. He wasn’t a slut, he was just in desperate need of love. He wasn’t anything  _ close  _ to a slut.

 

Paul shifts onto his other side to face Stuart, a small smile ghosting his lips, “Stuart?”

 

Stuart hums, brushing a strand of hair behind his ear.

 

“Thank you,” He spoke quietly, as if trying to make up for all the yelling earlier, “I’m sorry you got dragged into this…” 

 

“It’s fine, love,” The older smiled back, “I’m glad I was here to stop him from doing any more.” He doesn’t really want to recall the events that had happened not even an hour ago as they were both comfortable and peaceful (finally).

 

Their hands laced together.

 

They smiled.

 

“Actually,” Stu cleared his throat, “I wanted to talk to you about something?” It came out as more of a question, and when Paul hummed in response, he took it as an opportunity to carry on speaking, “You told me once that you hate people telling you they love you if they don’t mean it. And before you think I’m going to say that I love you, I’m not, okay?” He carried on, his voice dropping almost unnoticeably, “But, I do like you. A lot. And I don’t know whether you just see me as a friend, or not even that, something less, but I do like you.”

 

Paul looked at him with watery eyes.

 

“I’m so sorry you had to go through so much heartbreak in your life. I know it isn’t easy. But I mean it. I mean it, you have to believe me. I like you so much that I don’t know how to put it into words.”

 

“Well,” Paul glanced at him before looking up at the ceiling in quiet contemplation, “I like you a lot too. You better not be lying, Stuart, or I swear to God I’ll kill you.”

 

Stu almost laughed, but composed himself, “I’m not lying. I promise.” The words held so much meaning that Paul had no choice but to, well, believe him. With the others, it sounded different, it sounded rushed, almost tired (in a way in which they were tired of him), but this was different. This was so different that it seemed like maybe this was what the truth sounded like, and Paul stuck with that. He stuck with it because it was the only explanation, and it sounded reasonable.

 

_ The truth. _

 

Stuart Sutcliffe was telling the truth. Supposedly.

 

The older’s hand reached out and rested on Paul’s cheek, gently stroking - his skin was so soft, pale and downright beautiful that Stuart really didn’t think he  _ ever  _ wanted to leave him. Yes, ever. 

 

Maybe he could be the one to end to all the misery in Paul’s life, the one that actually fucking listens to him when he talks, or goes out in public with him. He could be the one to not be lying when he said he loved him, when he said he wanted him - the first, maybe not, but he wouldn’t leave Paul. Not now, not ever, unless Paul wanted him to, he wouldn’t leave him.

 

“Y’know,” Stuart kissed Paul’s forehead softly, “I’m sorry for being such a dick at the start. I really don’t have an excuse, I-”

 

He was cut off when Paul’s lips crashed against his, leaving him startled for a few seconds before he began to kiss back. Their lips moved together like they were made for one another, they just…  _ fit,  _ and maybe that was just Paul’s mind making it up, but he really felt it. The two kissed for a few more minutes, pulling away for air periodically and loving every second of it, Paul’s plump lips against Stu’s thin ones,  _ fitting together perfectly  _ and they wished this moment would last forever.

 

When they pulled away eventually, Paul was blushing hard (something he didn’t usually do when someone kissed him, it wasn’t usually this flattering) and Stuart was smiling. “It’s okay,” Paul said after a few seconds, closing his eyes.

 

“Stay?”

 

“Always.”

 

 

-

 

 

hey guys! i feel so bad for posting this on paul's birthday, but i couldn't wait. also, HAPPY BIRTHDAY PAUL! he's 77,,, my son :')

 

please leave comments, i love hearing from you guys! comments are always appreciated, even if it's a simple 'i like this' xx

 

i might make another chapter for smut? what do you guys think?

 

[my tumblr ](https://bittermacca.tumblr.com/)


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